“alarm and began what he figured would be his ritual for the next two weeks. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, threw on some clothes and started a pot of coffee. He stared blankly out the kitchen’s window as the Coffee-mate dripped. Likely, he’d need the entire fucking pot just to tack together a full sentence, but it had to be done. Last night Tristan and Ian had showed up to check on Papa Baird and to help in the pub. One of those daft bastards had pulled out Baird’s whiskey. He shook his... aching head and chuckled. Sometime around his third Robert Burns’ sorrowful poem, maybe fifth, Callan shut up long enough to think about how to make amends and not just think he should. Victoria had been hurt and angry, rightfully so, but she had believed he couldn’t admit that he cared for her. She’d been right. He couldn’t undo his decision to push her away. All he could do now was show her what he’d been too scared to feel, because she did matter. So much. If his grief had taught him nothing else it was that the little things mattered the most.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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